The Pirate's Bride Page 5

  The bartender’s swallow could be heard in the unexpected silence surrounding them. Even the squeezebox player terminated the shanty wheezing out of his instrument.

  After a prolonged pause, the barman jerked loose from Limey’s grasp. “She, eh? What ship you from, Madam?”

  Sophie struck a pose, one hand on her cocked hip, nose up in the air. “My ship is the Phoenix, newly raised from the ashes of the King’s Ransom. My father’s ship.” She heard Limey sigh beside her.

  “Her father’s ship, gents. The little miss fancies herself a pirate,” the barkeep sneered amidst uproarious, mocking laughter. Limey surged forward, but Sophie put a gentle, restraining hand upon his shoulder. His muscles flinched at her touch. Then she addressed the man behind the bar again.

  “I don’t fancy myself a pirate. I am a pirate. My father was Anton Bellard, Confederation Captain of the Sargasso Sea. Upon his death I inherited his holdings.”

  Derisive looks flashed her way. A tall pirate standing to the other side of McFarlane spat on the floor close to her boots. “The Sargasso, eh? Nothing but a floating kelp farm, that.”

  Sophie blinked. Having never sailed the Sargasso, she didn’t know if it was full of seaweed or not. However, she would not be brushed aside like some serving wench. “Since the Sargasso does not seem to impress any of you gentlemen, a term I use loosely, what if I told you I was also the daughter-in-law of Le Commandant? What say you then?”

  Ah, she had their attention now. Each one of them was staring at her in various stages of belief or disbelief, right down to the squeezebox musician.

  “I say,” began the grimy barkeeper, glancing about at his cronies before continuing, “that that’s a big what if, that’s what I say.”

  The crowd nodded while Sophie’s crew stood back. Sophie warmed to her topic.

  “Well, it’s true. I married Andre Dubois a few months ago and Le Commandant handpicked this crew for me, seeing as I’m part of his family. Therefore, I guess that brings the Caribbean Sea under my command as well. Am I pirate enough now for all of you mates?”

  One pirate in the back of the pack snorted. “Marriage or not, I’m bettin’ ole Andre don’t cotton to sharing his territory with no one, not even a wife.”

  Knowing laughter broke out once more and, bored with the entertainment for now, the ring around Sophie and her men began to break up. The barkeep barked at her, “Well, Mrs. Captain of the Caribbean and Sargasso, if ye be wanting rum, that’ll be a shilling, yer highness. If’n you and your crew are old enough to drink.”

  He cackled as Sophie fished out two shillings from her money pouch and slapped them on the sticky bar. “One for me and my first mate, if you please.”

  The barkeep slammed two tankards in front of Limey and Sophie, took the money, and lurched away from them to serve another customer down the bar. The rest of Sophie’s companions slipped away, seeing that their captain appeared safe for now.

  Dangling the rum tankard from two fingers, Limey leaned against the bar and nodded his thanks to Sophie. When he didn’t speak she prompted, “You don’t approve, Limey?”

  He shrugged. “You’re the boss, sir. I just think you talk too much. You didn’t need to disclose your connection to the Dubois’ yet. That’s all.” He took another swig.

  They were interrupted by an unkempt whore, who shoved her considerable girth between them. “You married Captain Andre? Skinny thing, ain’t you? Ain’t got nothin’ for a man to grab onto, d’ya?” The plump harlot grabbed her own bosoms in their low neckline, squeezing, and cackling.

  Sophie failed to hide her curled lip of disgust. Limey looked on in fascination, though he moved closer to her. She welcomed his presence as she stared into the woman’s round and florid face.

  The whore continued, “Funny, Andre didn’t say nuthin’ to me about a wife, an’ I just did him this mornin.’ Right appreciative he was, too. Barely got outta here on time, he enjoyed me handiwork so much.” She laughed, her exposed breasts jiggling in her enjoyment.

  Sophie stared at the fallen woman, unable to believe she’d just missed running into her errant husband, and that he would fraternize with a woman of this ilk.

  The trollop put a broken-nailed finger to her lips and cocked her head. “But, not bein’ one to show partiality, and seein’ as you’re married to ‘im an’ all, I could give you the family discount and do you right now for half price.” The harlot looked her up and down.

  Stunned by the suggestion, Sophie stared at her, until Limey grabbed her elbow and pulled her from the bar. The painted woman chortled, wiggling her tongue suggestively as Limey propelled Sophie away.

  She allowed him to lead her outside and prop her against the outer wall of the bar. He paced in front of her, wiping a hand down his face. Curious about what the whore meant with her last sentence, she frowned and asked, “Limey, what did she mean by—”

  He rounded on her, the anger on his countenance halting her mid-sentence as he waved his hands. “Don’t ask me, Sophie. Just...don’t ask me. I’m your bloody first mate, not your confidant. Save your questions for your husband. Obviously he’s not that far away.”

  She stared at him, flabbergasted at his tone of voice. He stopped his pacing, back to her, shoulders squared, hands on narrow hips. At last she spoke. “I’ve told you before, we have a marriage in name only. I...I trust you, Limey.”

  Silence, punctuated by his ragged breaths, stretched out between them.

  “I appreciate that, Sophie, and I’ll try hard never to betray your trust. However, I can’t discuss that. I’m not as detached as you think.” He turned toward her, and she sucked in a deep breath at what she saw on his face.

  Limey fancied her. The idea boggled her mind even as it dismayed her. She reached out to touch his cheek with trembling fingers, but he jerked his head out of reach, eyes blazing with unspoken emotion.

  “I’m sorry, Limey. So sorry,” she whispered. “I’m a ruined woman, and I’ve been ruined. Why do you think my husband took off for places unknown right after our wedding? Men can’t accept a defiled woman in their marriage bed.

  “The-the acts of intimacy are not for me. I realize that. And you deserve better. You deserve someone pure, and uninjured in spirit. A true helpmate. Please, Limey, always remain my friend. I wouldn’t be anywhere without you.”

  She held his gaze for long seconds. Finally, he nodded once, looked at the ground while running a shaking hand through his short-cropped hair.

  “I...I don’t quite agree with you, Sophie, about the thoughts of all men, but I will abide by your decision. I swear I will always be your friend, protector, and first mate, until you have no more need for me. But you must promise if you ever change your mind, I’ll be the first to bloody well know.”

  His tight, injured grin cut through the tension, bringing an answering smile to her face as she nodded. “I promise. Now, can we get some food?”

  He smiled his assent, turned to see if any of the others wanted to join them. She knew he’d given up too easily.

  ~*~

  The tiny Chinese woman climbed up Andre’s nude body. There was definitely something about the ancient Chinese arts, he mused. He might never return to the Caribbean if she kept doing what she’d been doing all night. Having finally made it to the Orient after several false starts and poor weather, he had to agree that men were treated like kings in this foreign land.

  The Asian minx was on the move, bending her head to kiss his chest, licking and nipping in strategic places until he felt the familiar anticipation begin to build. He raised his head from the pillow.

  “Bloody hell, girl, ole Andre needs a couple minutes to reload, but you are certainly lighting the fuse.”

  She giggled, using her tongue to good advantage. He knew she didn’t understand the innuendo, but there was no doubt his growing erection spoke volumes. In no time, he rolled her under him, slid inside her and caught his rhythm, bringing her along as he always took care to do with his partners. Soon they were
both groaning their release, his low and guttural, hers high and keening.

  Slipping to the side so as not to crush her, he contemplated his lover. No one had drained him this completely in months. He was fast becoming addicted to Lijuan, as she called herself, telling him her name meant “beautiful and soft.” Well, she bloody well lived up to both those descriptions, while making him anything but soft. Andre smiled as he floated on the edge of sleep, his arms around her.

  “Andre, you must go. It...is...almost morning.”

  Waking in mid-snore, Andre shot bleary eyes at Lijuan. She knelt next to him wrapped in a lovely satiny robe, long, dark hair swinging over her shoulders as she shook him.

  “I’m awake,” he snapped. He had no reason to be irritated this morning, as sexually sated as he was, but hell, today was beginning like every other day since they’d begun their assignations. Lijuan would shake him conscious from a sensual hangover only to shove him out the door like a used paramour. He knew she belonged to some man because the place she lived in was palatial. He figured she was a rich man’s concubine.

  “You must go, now. My husband has returned. My lady’s maid says he is on his way. If he finds you here, he will kill you, and exile me. That cannot happen. I am with child. His child. He is very important man here on Formosa. You must go.”

  Husband? Pregnant? She was married? He’d dallied with a pregnant wife? merde, what had happened to his simple life, the one where he could satisfy himself with any number of unmarried, unencumbered women? Where were all these femmes coming from, trapping him with babies and vengeful husbands? he didn’t have much of a conscience, to be true, but he’d always steered clear cuckolding another man. until now, apparently.

  “Lijuan?”

  A heavily accented male voice thundered down the hall from their little room, galvanizing Andre into action. Now was not the time to rue his latest faux pas he leaped off the rumpled bed, yanked on his breeches, fumbling with ties over quickly deflating morning erection. caught shirt Lijuan tossed at him one hand and shrugged into it, taking much needed time to tie black bandana around tangled hair.

  At last, he gathered his boots, hat, and coarse stockings. She stood at the open window waving her hand frantically for him to move faster. As he straddled the windowsill, shirt hanging open, bare feet dangling, he asked, “Who is your husband, anyway?”

  Approaching footsteps in the hall forced her to whisper, “Junjie Zheng. Hurry.”

  Andre froze, even as he heard the doorknob rattle.

  “Zheng? As in the renegade pirate Zheng?” His stomach rolled. The man’s methods of torture were legendary.

  “Yes. Now, go.”

  She pushed Andre out the ground floor window, tumbling him into the bushes below. Disappearing from sight, she called out in Chinese, “I am readying myself for you, beloved husband.”

  Bloody, buggering hell. Andre rose from the crushed bushes beneath her window, stifling a groan. He jammed his tricorn on his head and brushed off his clothes, stomping his bare feet into boots. Squaring his shoulders, he strutted around the corner of the building, commending himself on escaping imminent capture one more time.

  Until he found himself face to face with three Chinese pirate soldiers pointing arrow-sharp bayonets at his nose.

  “Putain,” Andre breathed resignedly. His bad habits had caught up with him.

  ~*~

  “Thief, get up,” growled an approaching guard some time later, breaking into Andre’s half-awake trance. Assuming nonchalance long since evaporated from his body, he cocked his hat to the side and glared toward his cell door.

  “Why? So you can beat me again? You already did that today,” he responded, preparing to lie back down in the straw.

  “Get off your arse and come forward. Ye got a visitor.”

  It was Zheng. He knew it. The evil pirate had come to torture his wife’s lover at last. In an attempt at bravado, Andre remained where he lay, defiant until the end.

  Unable to keep from peeking at the renowned Butcher of Formosa, he peered under his hat brim at the cell door. He nearly yelped his surprise at the sight of his first mate, Pedro de Gallo, standing behind the guard in a tight-fitting suit, complete with lace dripping from its cuffs.

  Glancing into his first mate’s face, he caught that man’s warning look, so he feigned disinterest, lying back in the straw with his hat over his face.

  “Only a strumpet will get me up,” he drawled.

  “The cur will be executed at dawn t’morrow,” the guard interjected. “Is he the intruder yer mistress saw?”

  Behind his hat, Andre had to admire de Gallo’s cover story and bravery. He didn’t know too much about Pedro’s past, but he was sure his first mate didn’t have a mistress. The man was too shy.

  “I’m not sure,” Pedro purred. There was a scuffle and a loud thunk. Andre lifted his hat in time to see the guard crash to the floor. His pointed helmet lazily rolled beside his bald head, while shy, rotund Pedro de Gallo stood over him, a golden statue clasped in one hand. Andre staggered to his feet, brushing straw from his breeches.

  “Mon dieu, that was impressive." He watched his first mate bend and remove the key ring from guard’s limp fingers. missed keyhole with every shaking attempt, until Andre reached through bars, took gently quaking mate, wiggled into place, unlocking door.

  As it swung open, he grabbed his hat and jacket, stepping over the guard before rolling the unconscious man into the cell he’d just vacated. After locking the man in, he turned to study Pedro, who had managed to pull himself together.

  “You were bloody fantastic, mate,” Andre praised, leaning in and taking his first mate’s face in both his hands, laying a loud buss on the startled man’s lips. Then he grabbed the golden statue and tossed it in on top of the guard.

  Straightening, he caught Pedro’s perplexed look. “I thought I’d bought the farm this time, Master G. Merde, I have never been so happy to see someone in my life. How did you find me?”

  De Gallo looked away. “Some Chinese woman came to the ship and told me you were captured. That you, that she...” He swallowed the rest of his sentence, met Andre’s gaze before looking away once again.

  Andre shifted on his feet. So, Lijuan had saved his ass. He must have made more of an impression on her than he’d thought. She’d actually put herself in danger by seeking out his ship. Perhaps old Zheng wasn’t as good in the sack as he was in battle.

  Rousing from his musings, he rubbed his hands together before clapping his first mate on the back. “Let’s get my weapons and scuttle this place.”

  The Spaniard spoke hesitantly. “Are we leaving Formosa for good, Capitán? The woman...she seemed quite distraught over you.

  Andre shrugged. “She’ll get over me. She’ll have to. We’re not coming back.” He sensed rather than heard Pedro’s sigh of relief. With a wink and a nod, Andre forged ahead. They’d worn out their welcome in Formosa. It was high time they headed home.

  Chapter Six

  Limey had to admire his captain. After their talk outside the tavern that night, when he’d had to swallow all the emotions he carried for Sophie, she’d gone about learning to be a landlocked pirate as she did everything—with full immersion. She’d also managed never to require his intervention again. It was a double-edged sword to see her outgrow the need for his protection.

  She mastered gambling without losing much money by maintaining a poker face, wrangled free food or drinks with a well-timed smile or wink, and listened to others bluster while holding her own information close to the vest. She earned the reluctant respect of all the pirates on Tortuga with just her willingness to learn. She’d become a bona fide buccaneer at last. He knew how much that meant to her.

  His favorite time in her company was on board ship. Many evenings Ephraim, the escaped slave, would pull out a harmonica, old Pierre his three-stringed guitar, and Cook some spoons, and the crew that remained behind that night would sing, clap, or dance in time to the music. Sophie danced a litt
le but shied away from any partners, usually content to tap her foot or warble off-key to garner a laugh. Only Limey understood her reticence, and his lips were sealed.

  The single most habit she had that irritated everyone, including him, was her penchant for bathing. She insisted on having extra water on board for the express purpose of cleaning herself, her hair, or her clothing. No matter how many times he explained pirates didn’t give a rat’s ass about their hygiene, she continued her ablutions, and had no qualms telling someone if they smelled ripe.

  Consequently, the crew of the Phoenix was probably the cleanest set of pirates in the Spanish Main, as well as the surliest. Other than that, they treated her as one of the men. That is, until he stumbled upon the single most difference.

  Checking supplies with Cook, Limey discovered the “special” water barrel of Sophie’s, as well as the general water supply, was below half. He knew their water would last until they returned to Port Royal and dropped off the commandant’s percent of their plunder with his purser. If it wasn’t used for bathing or laundry.

  He went in search of Sophie, to tell her to lay off the bathing for a few days, but she was nowhere to be found. Not at the helm and not in her cabin. Thinking he heard a noise up on the poop deck, he bound up the steps and sure enough, she was on her hands and knees washing laundry.

  “Cap’n,” he began, striding toward her in exasperation. She turned her head, the black braid she wore flopping over her shoulder.

  “The surplus water supply is getting low,” he continued, “so I suggest we stop all frivolous usage for the remainder of the trip.” By the end of his sentence, he stood over her.

  She jumped to her feet with a reddening face. “Then turn the ship around and head back. Good god, Limey you’re my first mate. I’ve given you an order, so bloody well follow it. No one has any business up here unless we’re under attack, so go.”